[ The door slips shut behind Desmond, and darkness settles in. Sound and sensation, a feeling of electric, predatory eagerness. Scent of booze and entirely too much perfume, sharp synthetic florals. A song he doesn’t recognize; a chorus of squealing, gasps and cheers.
A tension through his shoulders; a pressure as his hand grips firmer at his cane.
(He shouldn’t be here.)
((There’s something here he wasn’t meant to see, and briefly, briefly pain flecks insistent, aching.))
Discomfort, wariness dissipates as soon as light and darkness settle into place, as soon as vision settles and he finds the blessed, the only man he’d wish to see.
Oh, Puppy.
Oh… Puppy?
A recognition striking for the hundredth time: Jack is a terribly, terribly striking man. Whose beauty in body and in energy, and vibrancy alike shines with enhanced impact beneath brilliant-thrown lighting.
He could tear this crowd apart, and they’d never sigh objection.
Who could run this place with blood, and still they’d coo, they’d cry for more.
They don’t know what they witness. No one here - woman, man, anyone at all - can grasp the fury or the heart within this being. What runs beneath admittedly, admittedly adroitly-tailored abs and coils of muscle.
Desmond hadn’t expected to walk in on this… This performance. What might feel like something that could veer toward exploitation, if his Puppy weren’t so certain in his motions. If he didn’t know the gleam in Puppy’s eyes, and the strength he draws from dancing.
(He doesn’t like to see this crowd of nothings, of base-braying souls fixing eyes desires wishes on his Puppy. On this man who merits far, far better than their passing fantasies and brief amusement. He doesn’t like it—
But what matters here isn’t the irritation he knows toward the crowd. Isn’t the grit of his teeth as he sees this audience wide-eyed and reaching, as if daring, as if daring to think they held some right to this beholding.
What Jack gives them is a gift. These idle-minded shits don’t know it, but what in fuck’s name do they comprehend? Very little, and their presence hardly matters here. Save for what it offers Jack. Save for the way that their presence, their asinine and for the moment set aside judgments allow him to revel, to relish. To find beauty in this body he’s so often ached against.)
In silence - stricken, rooted, his heart tripping and then racing - he watches as his mate performs with graceful abandon. Sees the glint of skin he means to taste; the curve of lips he’ll claim for his own, and give his own up to. He sees as well the way his love takes care. How he slips the reach of a clawed hand. How he steps toward the stage’s extremity, and doesn’t linger.
His Puppy is clever. His Puppy has been given reason to be wary. And Desmond feels his jaw clenching, eyes narrowing, feel as if he might nearly charge in—
But then, the sight of amber eyes arresting and arrested with his own.
Then a smile, angelic, as if struck through to the soul.
Puppy’s eyes find him, find his own eyes, and time shatters in place. So that breathing, so that thought becomes extraneous. So that all else, all bodies fade away, and what Desmond knows is only his love lit in perfect radiance. What Desmond knows is his heart stammered, his heart welcomed, and his own expression tilting toward a fevered half-smile, an invitation and a promise.
’Soon, Puppy.’
’Soon, my Love, I’ll hold you.’
’Always, you, you are my world.’
It’s a staggered moment that melts away all tension, all unease.
It’s a moment that can’t last, doesn’t last, because his Puppy flinches, Jack’s attention drawn by some interceder, some flagrant disruption.
Desmond didn’t see what happened, but he feels his muscles coiling toward intent. Feels his jaw snap - barely, barely, but with a sharp sound - and keeps himself from launching forward only by watching his Puppy, watching the way Jack moves now, evades further infraction.
(Someone dared—
That woman near him. She, dim in shadow but with a particular dip of her head, a particular titter climbing up above the music that sets her into knowing: Mariel Strop. A teacher. A would-be social climber. Embedded with the PTA and not free of her own debts.
He marks her name; he notes her. He’ll find a means of recompense for this disgrace she’s played upon his love.)
He can’t dive in with cane and cuts. He knows this. He reminds himself, breathing, breathing. (Early, early on, Jack told him this could happen, does happen: Viewers reaching for more than a sight, hands reaching and turning into cuts, to grasps.) (Desmond doesn’t fucking care for this.) (And. Desmond knows his Puppy can handle himself. That this is one situation in which Daddy’s aid wouldn’t end well, or aid his Puppy’s interests.) As wild as ire shrieks his blood, he knows that other concerns ought to be given room; that other pieces of this moment matter more than satisfaction of his rage.
So Desmond draws a breath between grit teeth.
So Desmond searches for Jack’s eyes, and if he can find them, he gives a cant of his head, a half-grin flashing teeth, promising that Daddy’s watching; Daddy saw precisely who wronged his Puppy. And Daddy will be patient; Desmond will be waiting, will be admiring and adoring.
And he does watch. Continues to watch, fixated, even as he drifts toward the bar. Where there’s some measure of space between himself and the (offending! overreaching!) squalling (insulting, wretched!) crowd. Where he can feign to be a patron of some manner, perhaps entertaining the notion of a drink from the bartender who ((is difficult to look at)) appears to be doing his level best to ignore everyone and everything occurring on the floor.
He settles an elbow on the counter. He breathes again; lets himself feel the weight of the cane in his grasp and considers the possibility of maybe, maybe permitting himself to order something. If anyone looks his way (anyone who isn’t Jack, which of course means they’re no one at all), he’ll ignore them. If anyone speaks, he’ll feign difficult catching their voice over above the music.
Mostly, he observes the shrouded figures in the crowd and takes notice, takes name.
He watches his mate and thrills to the sight of— Ah, there is so much to see, and such worship he means to play on every inch of skin exposed and still-unseen.
If nothing else, it’s a gift to see his love perform.
It’s a pleasure, to know the wolf that waits beneath this human skin, and to think how perfectly, how beautifully his Puppy plays this crowd.
And how thoroughly he and his love will celebrate each other after. ]
no subject
A tension through his shoulders; a pressure as his hand grips firmer at his cane.
(He shouldn’t be here.)
((There’s something here he wasn’t meant to see, and briefly, briefly pain flecks insistent, aching.))
Discomfort, wariness dissipates as soon as light and darkness settle into place, as soon as vision settles and he finds the blessed, the only man he’d wish to see.
Oh, Puppy.
Oh… Puppy?
A recognition striking for the hundredth time: Jack is a terribly, terribly striking man. Whose beauty in body and in energy, and vibrancy alike shines with enhanced impact beneath brilliant-thrown lighting.
He could tear this crowd apart, and they’d never sigh objection.
Who could run this place with blood, and still they’d coo, they’d cry for more.
They don’t know what they witness. No one here - woman, man, anyone at all - can grasp the fury or the heart within this being. What runs beneath admittedly, admittedly adroitly-tailored abs and coils of muscle.
Desmond hadn’t expected to walk in on this… This performance. What might feel like something that could veer toward exploitation, if his Puppy weren’t so certain in his motions. If he didn’t know the gleam in Puppy’s eyes, and the strength he draws from dancing.
(He doesn’t like to see this crowd of nothings, of base-braying souls fixing eyes desires wishes on his Puppy. On this man who merits far, far better than their passing fantasies and brief amusement. He doesn’t like it—
But what matters here isn’t the irritation he knows toward the crowd. Isn’t the grit of his teeth as he sees this audience wide-eyed and reaching, as if daring, as if daring to think they held some right to this beholding.
What Jack gives them is a gift. These idle-minded shits don’t know it, but what in fuck’s name do they comprehend? Very little, and their presence hardly matters here. Save for what it offers Jack. Save for the way that their presence, their asinine and for the moment set aside judgments allow him to revel, to relish. To find beauty in this body he’s so often ached against.)
In silence - stricken, rooted, his heart tripping and then racing - he watches as his mate performs with graceful abandon. Sees the glint of skin he means to taste; the curve of lips he’ll claim for his own, and give his own up to. He sees as well the way his love takes care. How he slips the reach of a clawed hand. How he steps toward the stage’s extremity, and doesn’t linger.
His Puppy is clever. His Puppy has been given reason to be wary. And Desmond feels his jaw clenching, eyes narrowing, feel as if he might nearly charge in—
But then, the sight of amber eyes arresting and arrested with his own.
Then a smile, angelic, as if struck through to the soul.
Puppy’s eyes find him, find his own eyes, and time shatters in place. So that breathing, so that thought becomes extraneous. So that all else, all bodies fade away, and what Desmond knows is only his love lit in perfect radiance. What Desmond knows is his heart stammered, his heart welcomed, and his own expression tilting toward a fevered half-smile, an invitation and a promise.
’Soon, Puppy.’
’Soon, my Love, I’ll hold you.’
’Always, you, you are my world.’
It’s a staggered moment that melts away all tension, all unease.
It’s a moment that can’t last, doesn’t last, because his Puppy flinches, Jack’s attention drawn by some interceder, some flagrant disruption.
Desmond didn’t see what happened, but he feels his muscles coiling toward intent. Feels his jaw snap - barely, barely, but with a sharp sound - and keeps himself from launching forward only by watching his Puppy, watching the way Jack moves now, evades further infraction.
(Someone dared—
That woman near him. She, dim in shadow but with a particular dip of her head, a particular titter climbing up above the music that sets her into knowing: Mariel Strop. A teacher. A would-be social climber. Embedded with the PTA and not free of her own debts.
He marks her name; he notes her. He’ll find a means of recompense for this disgrace she’s played upon his love.)
He can’t dive in with cane and cuts. He knows this. He reminds himself, breathing, breathing. (Early, early on, Jack told him this could happen, does happen: Viewers reaching for more than a sight, hands reaching and turning into cuts, to grasps.) (Desmond doesn’t fucking care for this.) (And. Desmond knows his Puppy can handle himself. That this is one situation in which Daddy’s aid wouldn’t end well, or aid his Puppy’s interests.) As wild as ire shrieks his blood, he knows that other concerns ought to be given room; that other pieces of this moment matter more than satisfaction of his rage.
So Desmond draws a breath between grit teeth.
So Desmond searches for Jack’s eyes, and if he can find them, he gives a cant of his head, a half-grin flashing teeth, promising that Daddy’s watching; Daddy saw precisely who wronged his Puppy. And Daddy will be patient; Desmond will be waiting, will be admiring and adoring.
And he does watch. Continues to watch, fixated, even as he drifts toward the bar. Where there’s some measure of space between himself and the (offending! overreaching!) squalling (insulting, wretched!) crowd. Where he can feign to be a patron of some manner, perhaps entertaining the notion of a drink from the bartender who ((is difficult to look at)) appears to be doing his level best to ignore everyone and everything occurring on the floor.
He settles an elbow on the counter. He breathes again; lets himself feel the weight of the cane in his grasp and considers the possibility of maybe, maybe permitting himself to order something. If anyone looks his way (anyone who isn’t Jack, which of course means they’re no one at all), he’ll ignore them. If anyone speaks, he’ll feign difficult catching their voice over above the music.
Mostly, he observes the shrouded figures in the crowd and takes notice, takes name.
He watches his mate and thrills to the sight of— Ah, there is so much to see, and such worship he means to play on every inch of skin exposed and still-unseen.
If nothing else, it’s a gift to see his love perform.
It’s a pleasure, to know the wolf that waits beneath this human skin, and to think how perfectly, how beautifully his Puppy plays this crowd.
And how thoroughly he and his love will celebrate each other after. ]